‘I’ve got a caller.’ Bill lowered his voice. ‘Says he wants protection.’
‘Protection from who?’
‘He says he’s got information about the drugs war, knows why that young lad got murdered.’
‘It’s not my case, Bill,’ Rickman said, with regret. ‘Why don’t you put him through to Larry Dwight?’
‘He’ll only talk to you — says he can trust you.’
* * *
Rickman and Foster drove through the Wallasey tunnel and onto the motorway. The wind blasting across the dark expanse of Bidston Moss slammed Rickman’s Audi sideways a few times, and he gave the road his full attention until they reached a more sheltered stretch of motorway.
‘When you offered me a pint, I was thinking of somewhere local,’ Foster said.
Rickman related the details of the phone call. ‘Our informant insisted on an out-of-town pub for the rendezvous. I think he’s genuine, Lee.’
Foster nodded slowly. ‘And was this before or after you suggested a quick bevvy?’
Rickman smiled. ‘After. Definitely after.’
‘Well, I’m flattered. But what if he turns around and walks out, soon as he sees me?’
Rickman took the off-ramp at junction three and headed for Heswall. ‘This drugs inquiry is enough of a shambles without me adding to it,’ he said. ‘I want you as a witness. If he doesn’t like that, I’ll arrest him for obstruction.’
Foster grinned. ‘Now you’re talking.’
Ten minutes later, they were turning left at a roundabout and into the car park of the Glegg Arms. On the A540, at the outermost edge of Heswall, the former inn had been serving travellers for nearly two hundred years. The main entrance opened onto a long, low bar which was part of the original building. The interior walls were painted lemon-yellow and decked out with modern art. Leather sofas, pine tables and waxed wood flooring completed the café-meets-farmhouse feel of the place.
They stopped at the bar for a half-pint of Boddington’s, and Rickman sussed out the crowd while they waited. A steady influx of families made their way through to the restaurant on the far side of the bar. It was six thirty — too early for the young crowd, and the main business clientele snatching a swift half on their way home had either been and gone or had settled in for the full session. As yet, the bar was fairly empty.
The slot machines had been relegated to a dark recess at the far end of the bar. One machine was occupied by a man of around forty-five. He was about as wide as he was tall, and he wore a fine grey suit with a black cashmere sweater. Despite the ‘no smoking’ signs placed in prominent positions throughout the bar, an unlit cigarette was clamped between the index and median fingers of his right fist.
He prodded and poked the buttons on the machine like he was picking a fight with it, all the time glaring furiously at the columns of flashing lights. He’d clocked Rickman and Foster as soon as they’d come in, though, Rickman had no doubt. He caught another swift, evaluative glance as they drew closer. The man played his final spin of the electronic tumblers. They chuckled and burped, then fell silent.
The man gave the machine a sneaky kick, then seemed to flinch. He lifted one shoulder as they drew level with him. ‘Kind of luck I’m having right now, you could bottle it up, make a fortune selling it as bad karma.’ He grunted. ‘’Cept I wouldn’t wish my luck on me worst enemy.’ His accent marked him out as a Liverpool terrier among the Cheshire cats.
‘You know who we are?’ Rickman asked, wanting to avoid using his ID.
‘Rickman.’ He jabbed a finger at the DCI. ‘I recognise you off the telly.’
‘I get that a lot,’ Rickman said, deadpan.
‘He’s famous,’ Foster confided, then leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘You’re not his first real-life stalker, by any chance?’
‘Who’s the class clown?’ the man said without looking at Foster.
‘Detective Sergeant Lee Foster,’ Rickman said. ‘I assume you’d prefer he didn’t show you his ID.’
The man showed his teeth in a snarl. ‘Proper Laurel and Hardy, aren’t yiz?’ He took a hit from his cigarette, though it remained unlit, clamping his hand to his face. Then, embarrassed at what he’d done, he held the offending article between thumb and forefinger and squinted at it angrily.
‘Can we get on with it?’ Rickman said.
Without a word, the man turned and led the way through a door onto a covered smokers’ area, lighting up before they had sat down. The glow of a wall-mounted electric heater heightened his already florid complexion. It was dark and intensely cold, and Rickman doubted if anyone else would be foolhardy enough to brave the freezing October air, but the man kept a wary eye on the door.
‘What’ve you got?’ Rickman asked.
‘First off, I don’t want none of Dwight’s lot in on this.’
Rickman and Foster exchanged a glance. ‘What d’you know about Dwight?’ Rickman asked.
‘Only that he’s boss of the drugs inquiry.’
‘And why should we keep him in the dark?’
The man looked at Rickman as if he was a few cards short of the full deck. ‘It’s a drugs inquiry, isn’t it? If they know I’m talking to you, they might think the information’s worth selling.’
‘But you don’t think we would?’ Rickman couldn’t help being amused by the combination of world-weary cynicism and naivety.
The man looked from Foster to Rickman. ‘Let’s just say I checked youse two out.’ That explained his easy capitulation when faced with Foster as Rickman’s backup and witness.
Foster jerked his head at the man. ‘He’s a case, isn’t he?’
The man held up his hands, the cigarette still in his right paw. ‘This is my life we’re talking about, Mr Rickman. I been in this business long enough to know some men can be bought and sold like a used car.’
Rickman sucked his teeth. He suspected that this was meant as some kind of compliment — a valediction on his and Foster’s incorruptibility. ‘You know our names,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell us yours?’
‘We’ve got to get a few things straight, first.’ He took a pack of Benson & Hedges from his jacket pocket and tipped a cigarette out, lighting it from the stub of the last one. He pocketed the cigarettes, bringing out a small metal box and crushing the fag end into it, flipped the lid closed and slipped it back into his pocket, in what seemed a practised routine.
‘I want protection,’ he said. ‘A new ID, relocation — in Europe.’
‘How about a nice chateau in the Rhone valley?’ Foster said. ‘Nah — you look more like the Costa del Crime type to me. Flash villa with swimming pool and views over Torremolinos would be more your style.’
Rickman silenced Foster with a look. ‘Whatever you’re selling, it’d have to be good,’ he said.
The man took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I know why that lad was murdered.’
‘What lad?’
‘Don’t piss me about,’ the man warned.
Rickman stared him down.
‘Michael Aldiss,’ the man said. ‘The lad that got chucked off the car park roof — clear enough for you?’
‘I’m listening.’
The man took a drag on his cigarette and Rickman could see it cost him in pain. He blew the smoke towards the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, contemplative. ‘I want a guarantee, first.’
‘There are no guarantees,’ Rickman said. ‘But if the information’s worth it, I’ll do what I can.’
The man took another pull on his cigarette, clamping his hand over his mouth as if he was afraid he’d say too much. He exhaled, breathing smoke from his nostrils, and Rickman saw the slight flinch again.
‘You wanna look at Rob Maitland,’ the man said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s after Bernie Carter, isn’t he?’
‘You’re the one with the information.’
The man sighed. ‘He is — he’s after Carter.’
‘So, what did he do to
piss the boss off?’ Foster asked.
The man shook his head, perplexed, but Rickman noticed he avoided looking at either of them. ‘It doesn’t make no sense. I mean, Mr Maitland going after Carter — it’s like cutting off his own right hand.’
‘He must be an important man, this Bernie Carter,’ Rickman said.
Foster spoke. ‘He’s Maitland’s accountant.’
‘I’m guessing Carter must do more for Maitland than just fix the accounts,’ Rickman said.
The man snorted. ‘You’ve got that right. Money, payroll, random checks on packaging and distribution. Bernie does the lot.’
‘“Distribution”,’ Rickman repeated. ‘You make it sound like a regular business.’
The man finished his cigarette and went through the routine again of lighting another before cramming the stub into the metal box he kept in his pocket. ‘You need a good stock control and reordering system, the size of the operation Maitland runs.’
Foster smiled.
‘Listen, mate.’ The man leaned across the table, keeping his voice low, but evidently feeling the need to set Foster straight. ‘Maitland sells more pharmaceuticals than GlaxoSmithKline.’
Rickman watched him with increasing curiosity. ‘And where do you fit in?’
The man took his eyes off Foster grudgingly, took a swig of beer before going on. ‘Five years ago, I was running a couple of caffs in the city centre. The business was struggling,’ he said. ‘Starbucks and Costas opening everywhere — every bookshop bigger than a shoe box was cramming a coffee bar in at the back. There was so many Neros, you’d think the Romans had invaded.’
Rickman felt a spark of recognition. Coffee bars? Could this be—
‘Let me guess.’ Foster cut across his thoughts. ‘Maitland turned up with a sack full of cash like a fairy godfather.’
‘Not Maitland — Carter. It was his first business enterprise. He offered me cash up front in exchange for a share of the profits.’
‘And all his tainted drugs money came out cleaner than me granny’s whites on a hot wash,’ Foster said.
‘Them shops earn a legal profit of one point five mill per annum — net.’ The man sounded offended, even hurt, by the slur.
‘Legal profits aren’t legal if they’re paid for with dirty money,’ Rickman said. ‘You do know that?’
The man looked past him, his eyes narrowing with resentment. ‘Makes no odds — Bernie Carter made Maitland a multi-millionaire.’
Rickman took a cold, sharp swallow of beer. ‘You’d think Maitland would be grateful.’
‘You would.’
‘Got any theories on that?’
‘Not my job, mate.’
Rickman focused on a trickle of sweat meandering down the man’s broad forehead, while he thought through what he had just heard. As an accountant, Carter would work with money in the abstract — statements, expense claims and receipts. But money laundering would require real money siphoned through phoney accounts and businesses — Carter must have handled eyewatering sums.
‘Why have you come forward?’ he asked.
‘I’m attached to me fingers and toes.’ The man looked at Rickman, making up his mind about how far he should go. ‘Look, I’m just middle management. I’m not into the drugs side of things.’
Now Rickman was certain: the business references, the coffee bars, the thin veneer of machismo — even the flinch of pain every now and then.
The man drew deeply on his cigarette. It flared like a warning light, and as he took his hand away from his face, his fingers trembled.
‘How’s the rib?’ Rickman asked.
The man frowned, but his hand went instinctively to his chest, just under one sagging breast. ‘Feels like I got kicked by a donkey,’ he said.
Rickman nodded. ‘You’re Thomas Eames . . .’
‘Tommy the Tank,’ Foster murmured.
Eames bristled, but didn’t comment — Rickman guessed that the hard-man reputation stemmed from the men Eames kept around him. On his own, he looked like any other fat man sweating over a pint. And he looked badly frightened.
‘What has Michael Aldiss’s death got to do with this Bernie Carter?’ Rickman asked.
‘Them bastards held that lad over a sixty-foot drop. Kept asking me “Where’s Carter?”’
‘Why come to you — are you friends?’
‘We work together a lot,’ Eames said. ‘With the coffee bars and that. I see a lot of him. My girls play with his two.’
Rickman noticed he’d fought shy of calling Carter a friend. ‘So, where is Carter now?’
‘Don’t you think I would’ve told them if I’d known?’ The horror on Eames’s face said he probably would — if only to save his own skin. ‘He’s gone. Took his wife, the girls, locked up the house and vanished.’
‘You’re sure the men who killed Aldiss were sent by Maitland?’
‘Had to be.’
More evasion. ‘You didn’t recognise them? If not, it could have been anyone — a rival firm.’
‘No. I got on the blower to my lads — called for backup. They never came.’ Eames’s eyes reddened at the memory and his breathing became ragged. Reminded of his injury, the man hugged his ribcage with his free hand, frowning against the pain.
‘Maybe your lads saw the police arrive, decided to keep a low profile,’ Rickman persisted.
Eames opened the metal box and stubbed his cigarette out angrily. ‘They never come to help me because Rob Maitland stopped them,’ he said.
Rickman held his gaze. ‘I’m not convinced.’
Eames paused to light another cigarette and sat thinking a while.
Rickman stood. Eames looked up, startled. ‘Where are you going?’
‘This has been nice, Tommy,’ Rickman said. ‘But I’ve got work to do, and this isn’t even my investigation.’ He started walking, Foster close behind, and Eames half rose, then fell back into his chair with a grunt of pain.
‘All right,’ he croaked.
Rickman turned back.
‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell yiz — he’s not a bad lad, really — and he never done nothing to me before yesterday.’
‘We’ll put a testimonial in your statement if you like,’ Foster said, sarcasm vying with impatience. ‘How’s about you get on with it?’
‘There was one face I recognised,’ Eames said, sulkily. ‘Graham.’
‘Graham who?’ Rickman asked.
‘I dunno, do I? Graham — just . . . Graham. He’s been with Maitland forever.’
‘Did Graham give the order to heave Michael Aldiss off the roof?’ Rickman asked.
Eames seemed torn, but after a few moments gave a tentative nod.
‘You need to say it, Tommy.’
‘Graham give the order — is that clear enough for you?’
‘It’ll do,’ Rickman said. He took his seat again. ‘But you must have some idea why Maitland is after Carter.’
Eames gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m not that close.’ This time, he made an effort to maintain eye contact. His attempt at wide-eyed innocence failed to convince. ‘You don’t get that close to either of them.’
‘When did Carter disappear?’
‘Yesterday — we had a breakfast meeting scheduled. He didn’t show.’
‘It’s all about the power meetings and the glamour in the drugs world, isn’t it?’ Foster said.
‘I told you — never had nothing to do with the drugs,’ Eames insisted.
Rickman smiled. ‘Like I said, you don’t have to handle the stuff to be guilty. Money laundering carries a penalty of fourteen years — and that’s just for starters — I’ll bet you’re an accessory to at least half a dozen other arrestable offences.’
The skin of Eames’s face turned as grey as the ash at the tip of his cigarette. The sheen of sweat and the weight he was carrying gave Rickman a moment’s anxiety for the state of his heart. Then Eames took another drag on his cigarette, and he felt reassured.
‘I sw
ear to God, man — I didn’t know what he was up to, not at first,’ Eames said.
‘And when you did?’ Rickman asked.
Eames scratched the back of his neck, putting a strain on the seams of his jacket.
Foster snorted. ‘He was too busy counting his pennies to let a little thing like his conscience trouble him.’
Eames sighed like a man deeply misunderstood. ‘Have we got a deal or what?’
‘Depends what you can give us on the money laundering,’ Rickman said.
Eames sucked his cigarette down to the filter, then flicked it into the dregs of his beer. ‘That depends on what you can give me in compensation.’
For a moment they locked gazes, neither giving ground.
‘If Maitland knew I was talking to you,’ Eames said, ‘he’d cut my balls off and make me eat them with fried onions. So whatever you come up with better be good.’ He stood, hitching his trousers. ‘I’ve got two days. After that, Maitland will come after me, instead of Carter. My wife and kids are already gone — somewhere Maitland won’t think to look. I’ll be out of here by Sat’day night, just to make sure he doesn’t shorten the deadline. ’Cos a deadline in Mr Maitland’s diary means exactly what it says.’ Ever the businessman, he dipped in his pocket and slid a card across the table to Rickman. ‘You can reach me on my mobile. Don’t leave it too late — you might miss your chance.’
Rickman watched him disappear through the door into the bar.
‘Tommy the Tank . . .’ Foster murmured. ‘Think he’s genuine?’
‘Genuinely scared.’ Rickman picked up Eames’s card. It was printed on thick black board, a stylised coffee cup over his name in debossed gold print. ‘Do I trust him? About as much as I trust DS Cass.’
‘Talking of sleazy, lying arseholes, I talked to our friend and colleague about Carter,’ Foster said. ‘He agrees with Eames — Maitland wouldn’t be top turd in his own dung heap if it wasn’t for old Bernie the Books.’
‘So whatever Carter did to upset the boss, it must’ve been big,’ Rickman said.
‘Think he’s had his fingers in the till?’
‘He’s a bent accountant. I’d think it strange if he hadn’t. My guess is Eames is mixed up in the whole thing.’
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 27